


Wayne's Le Très Doré: restaurant review, by Jay Rayner

by Askell



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Crack, Food, Gen, Humor, M/M, POV First Person, Parody, Restaurants, Sarcasm, jason is a restaurant critique, jason's favorite meal is roasted bruce wayne, parody of a restaurant review
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 02:19:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18085538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: Jason is a famous restaurant critique who goes to Bruce Wayne's new elite restaurant with his two husbands Kyle and Dick, for a terrible evening.





	Wayne's Le Très Doré: restaurant review, by Jay Rayner

_ Wayne’s Le Très Doré: restaurant review, by Jay Rayner _

 

**Très Doré** , Very Gold indeed. In Ancient Greece, such a display of hubris would have men turned into sheep. Sheep they would as soon overcook.

 

Readers may recall my previous, cataclysmic review of the now-fortunately-bankrupt Iceberg Café, owned by Gotham’s much uglier version of the oldest Kardashian, Oswald Cobblepot. Had time machines not been banned by the GCPD, I would gladly take back everything I said. Iceberg Café deserved more Michelin Stars than could be hung in the sky, compared to the biblical disaster that is Bruce Wayne’s Le Très Doré. 

 

This is Wayne's first foray into the culinary world. I could give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume he has taken a more radical stance in his philanthropic efforts. Now, instead of funneling a truly paltry sum of money towards an orphanage or two (the same orphanages, I may remind you, that are kept underfunded because of the heavy tax breaks from which Wayne personally benefits) he has decided to side with the common people and shove enough gold down the gullets of the idle rich that they may, with any luck, die of heavy metal poisoning. Perhaps he is on our team now, a secret double-agent, using his infinite resources to sabotage his social peers by tricking them into dropping a truly ludicrous amount of money on truly appalling food. Perhaps Très Doré is merely a proletarian honeypot meant to ensnare and embarrass the billionaire class. I could give Wayne the benefit of the doubt, but I don't want to. I don’t think he’s that smart.

 

I fondly remember the simple meals shared with Buddhist monks in the icy heights of Nanda Parbat. Their exemplary humility and minimalism, rooted in a detachment from all material things, is an example for us all. Très Doré discards that example in a physically painful manner. 

 

In the rather agreeable company of my first husband Kyle, and my soon-to-be second husband Richard, I had in mind something outrageous. A little scandal to share without moderation. Something to make me miss Paris and its extravaganza. Dare I say, a small revolution for the palate. Walking under the golden arches (familiar?) of Le Très Doré, it seems indeed that the greatest curse a man can endure is to see his wishes accomplished. Gold, in all its bling and shininess, is a rather dull metal. What a coincidence to see it cover about every single inch of Wayne’s restaurant! 

 

Anyone with a minimal amount of shame or taste would have felt a little bile tickle the back of their throat upon the idea of serving menus on gold plaques. Feeling like Moses with my two panels, I glanced at the starters, ranging from $200 to the ridiculously low and specific price of $456. We obviously had to ask, none of them being carved in the two blocks. Dear Richard nearly lost his tastefully fake moustache. After ordering a pompously named Pompadour Marquise dish, worth more than this job pays, we waited. And waited. Time is money as they say, and Wayne certainly consumes both of mine!

 

It remained unclear during the following half an hour whether the expected us to feed only on -you probably guessed it- gold-covered baguettes. Hadn’t the thing been soggy, I would have gladly used the golden French staff to bludgeon myself, and end my suffering. Just as we suggested a retreat strategy, plates were brought. It would be an insult to my reader’s capacity to extrapolate to tell what material the plates were made of. 

 

I immensely enjoyed the few crumbs of lobster they managed to sneak in my butter. The FDA will have to do a closer inspection on their kitchens, however, as it seemed someone’s less dignified body fluids had found their way in the oysters. As any difficult teenager, I have read Fight Club. Whomever is responsible for the state of the seafood must have had a hatred of capitalism comparable to the blindness I was starting to experience due to the reflexive quality of about just everything. 

 

Upon having eaten what sperm banks probably call their daily harvest, for about as much as a stolen car used to cost where I grew up, we asked for more alcohol. Anything, even the stuff they use to disinfect the kitchen. We had high hopes to be released from our suffering by the cold hands of death, at that point. 

 

Aficionados of Quentin Tarantino may easily imagine the sound of Kill Bill sirens going off in my head as the next plate was carefully all but thrown in my lap. Chemistry and liquid soap-in-dishwasher enthusiasts would have easily recognized the purple mass as a form of foam. Video game players may have wanted to fight it to gain experience. It certainly seemed to move, and I was too cowardly to venture my fork (made out of a surprise material) near it. Informed that the creature was supposedly ‘vitelotte pomme de terre and its bed of crème champêtre’, I felt the need to ask for the menu bricks once again. My bad. It did say ‘midsummer night’s dream’. 

 

As one of my favorite authors would say, a spice in the domain of feelings can mean a special spark of interest. The spice in a couple can be naughty, but also endearing. To spice up things means to make things, whatever they are, worthy of an interest which was waning. Indeed the world is full of images from the kitchen, such as salt which can figuratively indicate frustration, anger. The main dish indeed lacked spice, and made me full of salt.

 

Without the presence of dishes on the table, one could have thought the sheep steak escaped from a shoemaker’s shop. Now, an evening with a bit of leather usually puts me in a joyous mood, but I would rather not eat the thing. Like a wasted high school girl sneaking back into her parents’ house through the bathroom window at an ungodly hour, only to ruin her efforts by puking all over the corridor, the carrot sauce looked like a mistake. We were informed rather boredly that this species only grows in rural parts of France under the care of orphans to generate more revenues for their orphanage. Child labour, that’s what the aftertaste was! 

 

At this point, Kyle choked on a (gold-plated???) fish bone, which had the advantage of creating a little animation. One Heimlich and several dishes doubtlessly banned by the Geneva convention later, we sat hungry but blissfully drunk out of our minds. Say what you want about Wayne, at the very least the man knows his bottles. Ordering dessert seemed like a dare, a feat of resilience I couldn’t find in me after all of it.

 

Admitting my defeat, I nonetheless ask any of my highest-figure readers to give Très Doré a try. Come on. The sheep comes with my highest recommendation. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written after Goose from the JayDick discord showed me some hilarious restaurant critiques by Jay Rayner, which you can find on The Guardian. And thus was born this xD  
> Special thanks to Goose for having written the paragraph about Wayne secretly trying to end capitalism <3


End file.
